Marguerite Kaye - The Truth Behind Their Practical Marriage

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Then shall we call ourselves friends?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’ She took his arm again and they walked on in silence, but halfway across the Ponte alle Grazie they stopped once more, this time distracted by the view. The falling sun cast a warm glow on the buildings on the opposite bank, making a golden haze of their reflections in the now still waters of the Arno. Estelle leaned on the parapet to watch as the shutters were being pulled down on the shops which lined the Ponte Vecchio. ‘It’s breathtakingly lovely, isn’t it?’

‘As a backdrop, but so is the subject.’

She turned to face him and her breath caught as their eyes met.

‘May I see you again tomorrow, or is it too soon?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘It’s not too soon.’

He smiled. They stood together watching the sun sinking and the sky fading from gold to pink before they turned of one accord to continue over the bridge. He walked her to the door of her pension. They made arrangements to meet in the morning. When she bid him farewell, he took her hand, raising it to his lips, before pressing a kiss to her gloved fingertips. She rushed up the stairs to her room, pushing back the shutters to lean out, and he turned and waved. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

‘I love to wander aimlessly like this, but I’m always a bit wary to do so on my own. Now I’ve you to chaperon me, I don’t have to worry.’

Estelle smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming with humour, and Aidan exhaled sharply. He really had to stop thinking about kissing her. ‘I’m a mathematician, not a prize fighter, I’ll have you know.’

‘And here was I thinking that beneath your coat there was a rigid wall of muscle, when it’s just padding. I should have brought my parasol, at least then I’d have a weapon.’

He swore to himself as another part of him threatened to become rigid when she squeezed his arm playfully. He was acutely aware of her every touch—the brush of her skirts with the hint of warm limb beneath, the cushioned bump of her thigh or the sharp nudge of her shoulder, her fingers twined around his arm. Was it the same for her? She certainly made no attempt to maintain distance between them, but perhaps that was because she didn’t notice! Yet in the café where they met this morning, when their hands were resting on the table, their fingers just brushing, there had been one of those moments when their eyes met and he was sure she felt that awareness of the contact that was both a pleasure and a pain because it wasn’t nearly enough. He swore again, shaking his head at himself. He was a mature thirty-year-old, not an overeager juvenile.

Though he couldn’t deny it was both a relief and a pleasure to learn that side of him wasn’t after all quite dead. How long had it been since he’d felt so free of cares and glad to be alive? Not that he could remember ever feeling quite like this before, and besides, he didn’t want the past to intrude on a day like this, with the sun shining, and with a woman so vibrantly full of life on his arm that he was able to persuade himself, just for now, that his slate had been wiped clean.

‘Welcome back.’ Estelle smiled at him again. ‘You’ve no idea that you do that, have you? One minute you’re here, the next minute, the shutters come down. Don’t worry, I promise not to pry into your darkest secrets if you promise not to pry into mine.’

‘I can’t believe you have any.’

‘I don’t have any thoughts at all. Sure, didn’t I tell you,’ she said, thickening her accent just as he did when jesting, ‘that I’m as empty-headed a female as any man could desire.’

‘You’ve a very low opinion of my sex.’

‘I’ve a very low opinion of those of your sex I’ve encountered on my travels. That’s a very different thing. Yourself excepted of course—in fact, in future it would be easier if you just assume that you’re the exception to every one of my rules.’

‘Thank you kindly, but surely—Estelle, you must have encountered some more worthy specimens in three countries over the space of so many months.’

‘You’re right, I’m probably being unfair, but my experience has not been particularly positive. It comes of being single and female and—well, looking as I do.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘People make assumptions—women too, to be fair—that red hair denotes a passionate nature would be to put it kindly, more crudely an indiscriminate one. Of course not all men are like that, I do know that. Certainly those on the list my sister gave me have been extremely respectful.’

‘Diplomats, I assume?’

‘For the most part, and all of the utmost good character. Why is it that good character seems to go hand in hand with boring character?’

‘I sincerely hope that once again I’m an exception to your rule?’

‘You are indeed, though I notice you didn’t deny having something to hide when we were discussing dark secrets earlier.’

She was teasing, but her smile faded at his expression. ‘Everyone has regrets,’ Aidan said, ‘I am no different.’

Would Estelle see him in a very different light if she knew the truth? Fortunately, he’d never know. There would be time enough to face up to the past when he returned to Ireland, but for now he wanted to savour this welcome respite, a chance to remember the person he’d once been, and to enjoy being that person again. It was just a pity that he’d not met her earlier, for the clock was already ticking on their day-old acquaintance.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said, covering her hand with his. ‘My only recent crime is that I’ve been less than assiduous in my studies this last month or so, and frittering away my time. I reckon I’ve been waiting on you turning up.’

‘The fates must have conspired to bring us together then. Though I didn’t realise it until we met yesterday, I’ve become rather bored with my own company.’

They had arrived in a little piazza on the outskirts of the old town. There had been a food market earlier, judging by the tatty bits of greenery that were strewn around. Water spouted from a worn lion’s head into a small fountain in one corner. Estelle cupped her hand to drink from it, yanking it back when she remembered that she was still wearing her gloves.

‘Here, let me,’ Aidan said, making a cup of both his hands.

She hesitated only for a second before dipping her head and drinking. Her tongue brushed against his palm. He exhaled sharply. She stopped drinking. Their eyes locked. Water dripped down his fingers on to the cobblestones. A droplet glistened on the indent of her top lip. He brushed it away, heard her exhale as sharply as he had done. She stepped towards him. His heart was pounding. Her hand fluttered up to his cheek. He dipped his head, she lifted hers, and their lips met. Icy cold water, warm flesh. He felt dizzy with the delight of it, allowed himself a moment to relish the sheer pleasure of it, before stepping back.

Her face, shadowed by the brim of her bonnet, reflected his own feelings—wide-eyed, flushed, uncertain, as if she had imagined it. ‘Estelle,’ he said, then stopped, for she shook her head, and he had no idea what to say anyway.

‘Do you like churches?’ she asked. ‘Not grand cathedrals but workaday churches, I mean, like that one, that smell of incense and candles and the congregation. Do you like them?’

At this moment, he reckoned if she’d asked him if he liked pickled herring he’d have told her it was his favourite food, but in fact he did like churches, the sort she’d described, very much. ‘I do,’ he said, taking her arm again. ‘Shall we go and take a look?’

It was a lovely church, as far as Estelle was concerned, with no cavernous nave or fresco-adorned ceiling, but a simple affair with plain wooden pews, a scrubbed flagstoned floor, and a wooden altar. The icons on each of the side chapels were not painted by any master, though they were so old that the painted panels were cracking, but the flowers were fresh, and the church had the peaceful atmosphere of a place well used by the devout.